


How Long Can a Last Breath Take

by PurellGoddess



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, More Fluff, flash backs, fluffy fluff fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurellGoddess/pseuds/PurellGoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reflection on the relationship between John and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Long Can a Last Breath Take

It's odd how fast a man can die. I've seen countless men, good men, get caught in the unfeeling crossfire of war. The life left their eyes before the bullets even stopped firing. I've held on to the hand if a dying man and felt his last breath in my cheek. I've heard the last words of too many heroes to do them justice. Every death I have seen has left a tiny, invisible scar on my heart, throbbing when I least expect it. By now, my heart must be nothing but scar tissue. Death always leaves me scarred, but no death hurt as much as his. I saw him die twice. Only the great Sherlock Holmes could die twice. I thought he would never die, that he would never leave. Unfortunately, he proved to be mortal, although he gave the very opposite impression.  
The first time, I couldn't save him. There was no way. I didn't even see the light leave his eyes, not feel his final breath. I did hear his last words. They killed me more than anything. He said goodbye, of all things. Not, "I'm sorry," not "Oh, shit I'm going to die, peace out, bitches." He just said goodbye. Like it wouldn't hurt. Like he didn't care. Like he didn't know how it would kill me. But then, how could he know?  
Then he came back. It was in the middle of the night. When he swung ope the door, I almost died right then and there. At first, I thought I was already dead, and he was going to lead me to heaven. I saw the glow surrounding him, calling to me to join him. But then, not saying a word, he placed a hand on my shoulder and led me back to bed. Paralyzed, I fell back, and he started to retreat. I grabbed his hand, begging him to stay. He just looked sadly back, and leaned down to gently kiss me on the forehead. Then he was gone. Just like before. I thought it was a dream for so long. I thought I was going insane. My therapist thought I was going insane. Then one day, I came home, and he was there. Just standing in my living room, just as before.  
After the initial shock, things became almost as they were. We solved cases together, same as always. We slipped into the slump of normalcy. Well, normal as life can be when you are acquainted with Sherlock. A few life or death situations later, it seemed as if he never died. Although, sometimes, I caught him looking at me with a look of such sorrow and helplessness. I pretended I didn't see his heart-wrenching asides, and pretended to forget.  
Since he came back from the dead, Sherlock had been growing closer and closer to me. I always had a place for him in my heart, as any friend would have for another, but I truthfully never thought he had the capability to... love. In fact, the first time we met, he told me that he considered himself married to his work and I let it be. But since he left, he seemed more... human. Every night, while we watched telly, he would inch ever so much closer. I never said anything, and he continued until one night after a particularly grueling stakeout, he reached out to me for the first time since Baskerville.  
\-----  
John collapsed into the worn armchair, springs squeaking in indignation. Sherlock limped over to his own chair, smiling slightly as he pulled it over closer to the telly, and to John. Flopping down with a thump, they sat in a peaceful silence watching a gameshow rerun. John didn't realize something was different until the show was over. Sherlock hadn't answered any of the questions. Usually, he paced around the room shouting out exclamations about everything from albatrosses to zinoplatonics. Today, however, he was dreadfully silent. John sneaked a glance over at his partner. He looked normal, eyes focused on the screen. But then, over from his perch on the high-backed chair, he moved his hand ever so slightly closer to the doctor's. Just before they touched, he paused as if unsure, then gently covered the John's hand with his, all the time keeping his eyes trained on the telly.  
Perplexed for an instant, John turned his hand over under Sherlock's and grasped his cold, shaking fingers. Turning away, the crouched figure rested his head on the back of John's chair, shoulders quiver slightly. "Sherlock?" He looked up with red ringed eyes.  
"I'm so sorry," he croaked. Not knowing what to do, John kneeled, tentatively grasping his friend's arms. "You have nothing to be sorry for." This just caused Sherlock to bury his chin in his chest. He groaned, covering his reddening face with his stark white hands. Prying them off, John comforted softly, "Shh. I'm here, I'm here." He cupped the detective's chin and laid it on his shoulder. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's figure and held on tightly. He spent the rest of the night there, holding Sherlock, broken and sobbing, in his arms.  
\-----  
The second time I saw him die I could have saved him. There must have been a way to save him. I wasn't strong enough. It was my fault. We were following a serial killer who was on the prowl for his next victim. We turned the corner and the bullets started flying. No one thought that a mere bullet could have killed the great Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, he proved to be more mortal than everyone believed. He lay there dying in my arms, and I wept over him.  
"I'm so sorry," I said. "No, John." He whispered, "You have nothing to be sorry for." Then with his last strength, he curled up into my embrace and kissed me fiercely. Time slowed and then stopped as the kiss grew and grew, enveloping the world and everything in it. We surpassed logic and physics in our forever expression of love. Then, he exhaled on my lips for the last time, and his eyelids fluttered, as if he was falling asleep. Then, he was gone. Just like that, the greatest, smartest man I have ever know had left the mortal world. I stayed by his body until Lestrade found me in the morning.  
The killer got away in the end. That mother fucking piece of bullshit who killed my best, dearest... friend is still walking on this crummy Earth. He is the only reason I am still alive. My hatred for him and the drive to end his sorry life is the only fuel I have keeping me going. He is the only thing between me and Sherlock now. Once he is gone, I will join him. I will meet him in the kingdom of heaven, and we will once again walk as one, hand in hand, cheek to cheek, mind to mind. And our hearts, although both scarred, will be as one.


End file.
